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He runs a hand over his mouth and slides his sunglasses back into place. I mimic the movement.

“I really fucking hate this,” he huffs. “I know you’re not far—I’m in Boston and Max and Anna are here now. I just . . . Bennett, you have to call me if you need me.”

A nod is all I can manage, because my throat feels a little tight.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“And every Tuesday, five p.m., I can drive you to therapy, and we can have dinner after.”

“Okay.” He pulls into a small cul-de-sac, catty-corner to the rest of campus, facing out toward a row of older neighborhood houses that have mostly been taken over by students, rented and passed down to friends.

The townhouse is attached to the dorms, still in that same Ivy League–inspired style, red brick and beautiful, that’s part of the draw of Waterfell University.

The inside is much more spacious, with a vaulted ceiling in the living room because of the secondary common space upstairs, and non-carpeted floors on the first story. I inspect the kitchen first—it’s clean, with a good enough stove to work on and a spacious fridge. Rhys and his father saunter in, laughing and smiling. Freddy follows behind, a strange, hesitant, lopsided grin on his face.

“How much more expensive is this, exactly?” Freddy asks, but Mr. Koteskiy shakes his head.

“Nothing that your scholarship won’t cover—you’re fine.”

The words settle his anxiety almost immediately. A niggle of regret tugs in my stomach for being so selfish, but I can’t figure out how to apologize or offer anything to him.

“It’s a four bedroom, so you’ll end up with another roommate. No guarantees he’ll be from the hockey team,” my dad adds, crossing his arms. Both Max and my dad are usually in suits if we’re not at the rink together, but today they look younger, clad in shorts and T-shirts. Rhys’s father even sports a backward baseball cap, like he’s the one moving into his college dorm.

“We’ll make it work,” Rhys interjects, settling everyone, me included. “Bottom floor? I think the right-side bedroom and bathroom are farthest from the noise.”

I follow Rhys, like I have since day one.

• • •

First days, hell, months, in new facilities are tough—new anything is tough for me, really.

I was at Berkshire for the last four years; I adjusted there. I had my routines, my classrooms, my friends. To start over, with how much groundwork it takes me to become “adjusted,” is like watching the formation of mountains in real time.

So, between the unavoidable disruption to my routines and the embarrassing explanation that despite how state-of-the-art the facilities are, how top-of-the-line the staff is, I don’t want anyone to touch my fucking things, my anxiety has skyrocketed.

The first week, Rhys would step in for me. I didn’t have to ask; he would just stop the man who was reaching for my pads and tell him my preference with the smile that I’ve seen Rhys and his father use to soothe everyone in the room. Like a goddamn superpower.

On my own, it’s harder.

I’m last off the ice today, doing a final drill and chatting with the senior goalie. He heads to the showers, leaving his pads and practice uniform in a heap on the floor that makes me sneer a little in disgust as I step over it and start to strip off my entire uniform, gently stacking my leg pads in a pile.

I take a minute to breathe, tilting my head down and side to side three times. I roll my shoulders, left then right then both, three times over, before—

“Oh, sorry,” a gentle voice echoes in the cavernous room. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

I look up, breath still a little choppy midway through my cooldown. A girl, dressed in a Waterfell University long sleeve and leggings, murky brown hair high in a swinging ponytail, stands just inside the room looking toward me a little apologetically.

Her gaze drops for a second over my body—shirtless, in nothing but my black jock pants—before coming back to my eyes as pink tinges her cheeks. Mine accidentally do the same, a flush matching hers making me feel warmer in my already overheated state.

Wonderful. Now we’re both embarrassed.

It would be easy to snap at her, my usual default setting dialed up to a thousand after being interrupted mid-routine, but I swallow the verbal assault and freeze instead.

“I’m—I just need to grab the . . .” She gestures widely to the left behind scattered clothes and goalie pads.

My brow furrows as she drags one pad in and, holding her breath, tosses the dirty laundry into the chute.